


The Future is Bart

by DoreyG



Category: The Simpsons
Genre: Developing Relationship, Future Fic, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Past Murder Attempts, Pre-Slash, Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-23 15:13:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8332387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/pseuds/DoreyG
Summary: "You're not actually doomed to be a failure, Bartholomew."





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cricket_aria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cricket_aria/gifts).



"You're not _actually_ doomed to be a failure, Bartholomew."

"I'm sorry, but who-?" He starts acidly, gets halfway through turning around before his eyes are widening and he's leaping up to his feet, "It's Sideshow Bob!"

"Please," Bob sneers, with a heavy roll of his eyes. Even standing in the middle of an empty burger place, dressed relatively subtly in a pea green coat and a baggy hat shoved hastily over his absurd hair, he stands out - maybe it's the obviously arrogant expression on his face, or maybe it's just that he's been running from this dude for so long that anything he does is bound to stand out, "I haven't been Sideshow Bob for, what, ten years? I would've thought you would've grasped that by now."

He, forgetting the instinctive and entirely understandable terror surging within him for a moment, glares.

"...But then, maybe you're more doomed to failure than I thought."

"What," he grumbles, still glaring and with his hand twitching ever closer to the greasy flipper on the counter, "are you doing here, _Criminal_ Bob? I thought you were in jail. Again."

"I was, again," Bob sighs, leans on the counter between him and the greasy spatula. By the faint smirk lingering on his face, he seems to know exactly what he's doing, "after the last time I tried to kill you, when both of your sisters managed to intervene in a rather... Painful way."

He smirks, makes a note to send Maggie - still largely silent, apparently entirely terrifying - a bunch of flowers when he gets of shift, "that still doesn't exactly answer my question."

"Alright, then," Bob's smirk, which he expected to sharply disappear at that, only grows wider. He lifts up on his elbows, and laces his fingers underneath his chin like one of those particularly pretentious philosophers that Lisa is always going on about, "you should know, perhaps better than anyone, that the American justice system is deserving of mockery at best."

Ah. He opens his mouth, already prepared to spit about fifty swear words and a great deal more besides, "I-"

"And, if I may go further?" Bob releases one hand, holds it up to him. Charges onwards without waiting for his answer, taking advantage of his shock at being politely interrupted by a guy who has tried to murder him about a bazillion times, "I got out of jail, briefly considered putting my life back together, remembered how badly that went the past few times I attempted it and instead decided to revert back to my old habit of trying to murder you in increasingly inventive ways. I walked to the nearest bus-stop, hopped on the next bus, drove into town and immediately sought your latest place of employment out. I prepared my largest knife, watched the shop for a while, timed my entrance to a few minutes after your manager snuck out of the back door to go talk to some terribly attractive young women... And then I actually saw you."

"Yeah, and made the whole failure comment," he grumbles, slumping a little behind the greasy counter, "I think I'm up to date from there. Thanks, Failed Murderer Bob."

"Are you, though?"

"I'm not that-" He pauses for a second, straightens a little as the rest of Bob's borderline rant penetrates his apparently as-thick-as-the-grease-on-the-countertop skull, "wait, you have a knife on you?"

"I'm not exactly going to use it, not now that I've glimpsed the... _Conditions_ of your miserable existence," Bob sighs, reaches into a pocket of his coat and - as if to prove his point - throws the knife harmlessly down onto the counter, "it would be simply undignified, for the both of us. Our long and colorful war cannot end here, in a cut-price meat emporium that can't even spell the word beef correctly."

"Yeah," he says, staring at the rather threatening gleam of metal just a few hands away from him, "rub it in, why don't you?"

"That is not at all what I mean to do," Bob says, surprisingly gently for a murder happy goon. Steeples his fingers beneath his chin again, and stares at him intensely, "Bartholomew... I meant what I said, when I entered. You really aren't doomed to failure, to this dead end job in a dead end town. You could be so much more than this, if you just let yourself."

"So you're going to give me a grand motivational speech now?" He asks sullenly, lifting his eyes from the knife to glare at Bob's face afresh, "after, what, about ten years of trying to murder me every few months?"

"Yes," Bob offers, quite simply. Meets his glare with a renewal of that faintly amused smirk, "I will admit, Bartholomew, I have found you deeply annoying over the years... But in the manner of a nemesis, one who stands above the other fools who vex me so with their idiocy. I have despised you for your wit, your cunning, your surprising dedication to doing the right thing no matter how much you protest against it. I have despised you, in short, as an equal."

He stares, taken aback despite himself.

"...Not as the grease-jockey bastion of foolishness that you are pretending to be now."

"Everybody thinks I'm a failure," he mumbles slowly, absent-mindedly tracing out a circle in the grease as he meets Bob's gaze, "my dad's thought it practically since I was a toddler. Lisa's thought it since I was a teen, and mom gave up on me at about the same time. Even Maggie... Are you saying that you know me better than all of them?"

"There is a certain... Intimacy between those who have matched wits and lives so many times, you must admit," Bob smiles, reaches out to still the tracing of his hand with his ever so long fingers, "I have seen the potential in you ever since we first met, and I cannot unsee it now. Sometimes I think we know each other better than anybody else alive... And thus I know, that you are meant for so much more than flipping burgers and stewing in your own perceived failures."

He hesitates for a moment, caught under the intensity of Bob's gaze and the tightness of his grip.

...He draws his hand back sharply, is surprised by just how much he immediately misses the warmth of Bob's touch, "you're wrong, and you're insane and you should leave before I call the police."

"Perhaps," Bob sighs again, softly. Draws back from the counter, grabs his absurdly big knife and heads towards the door. He turns only at the last moment, meets his eyes with a faint smile playing around his lips, "but perhaps not. At least think on my idea, won't you? It might hold more charm than you at first thought."

He stands at the counter for a long few moments after Bob leaves, hands clenched into fists. The shop remains silent around him, his manager remains gone. His life remains an unpleasant stew of failure, a dead-end stretch where he hasn't helped a single person or made the world better in any way.

_You're not actually doomed to be a failure, Bartholomew._

He turns to the ancient computer perched on the countertop, hesitates for only a moment before bringing up google and searching for a one way trip to France. Bob is wrong, sure, and insane and murderous and with absolutely no idea what he's talking about pretty much _ever_... But hey, maybe it's worth a shot.


End file.
